Best Friends
by Athena2693
Summary: They understood each other in a way nobody else could. They shared a common experience. They had both lost their lovers to Wicked. Thomas/Minho friendship only. Implied Thomas/Theresa and Minho/Newt. Set after the last book so spoilers.


Author: Athena2693

Title: Best friends

Summary: They understood each other in a way nobody else could. They shared a common experience. They had both lost their lovers to Wicked.

A/n: Just kept seeing this parallel between Thomas/Theresa and Minho/Newt that seemed like it would be a bonding experience.

* * *

It was coming upon the two year anniversary since Thomas and Minho first stepped through the flat trans into Paradise. Things had changed drastically in two years. Animals domesticated, fields sewn, homes erected, babies born (immune babies?), schools formed, even a church and connecting graveyard had sprung up seemingly overnight. The graveyard had only a faint scattering of tombstones, most of them marked with dates within the first week of arrival, and Thomas was thankful for that. He had seen enough death in his short life.

The church also served as the townhall. Minho called meetings frequently at first and then he had stepped down, sick of leading. He liked being in charge but without the resposibility. He was elected principal of the school. That suited him fine. He got to order people around but nobody would die because he hadn't planned ahead for a drought or an unusually long winter. A council of nine took over, all older individuals. They kept calling meetings to the hall but they were more limited to individual groups. Teachers only, farmers only, seamstresses only. Thomas went when they called for a meeting of the fisherman but otherwise avoided the church. He was not a religious person. Or at least he didn't remember ever being one. Had he forgotten a God in his memory? If he had, would he still believe in Him, after all he went through?

Sunday was a day of rest for all in the community except their clergy. About half of the community attended the weekly sermons, for the social aspect if for no other reason. Thomas and Minho, matching each other stride per stride, followed the wide dirt path towards the north with the churchgoers every Sunday. They talked pleasantly along the way, with each other and whoever else was around. Sometimes Minho played tag with the children. Before reaching the doors though, they'd bid farewell to the religiously devoted and follow a much smaller, less worn, dirt trail away from the building into the cemetary behind it.

In the farthest corner from the church, nestled against the brown wooden posts that made up the graveyard's fence, were two large gray rocks. They were almost hidden by this point by the flowers and bushes planted around them, almost sucking them back into the forest just beyond the fence. A few feet before the stones was a heavy stone bench. Not the most gorgeous piece of construction ever witnessed by man, but solid and symmetrical.

First, Thomas would crouch before the stone on the left, as Minho stood silently beside the bench, and lay something on the grass before it. Commonly a flower, sometimes a shell or feather or a small piece of paper folded in two to hide whatever he had written there. He would stand up again, take a few steps back, and sit on the left side of the bench. Then Minho would step forward to the right stone, kiss the second and third fingers on his right hand, press them against the stone, and then he would sit beside Thomas.

They never talked. They sat there, unmoving, unspeaking, until the sounds of people filing out of the church broke their peace.

It was something special for Thomas and Minho, to take part in this weekly ritual without fail. Spiritual, in it's own way. It gave them a sense of time and movement through the seasons. They became aware when the birds stopped singing, when the rain became cold, when the grass begain to push through the dirt. The warm breeze of a summer day and the pleasant songs of the birds was just as pleasing as a wailing wind and the pattering of rain on a muddy ground. Different, but good.

They took the time to enjoy their freedom, to enjoy nature, and to enjoy each other's presence. They also took the time to think and contemplate. About where they were, where they had been, where they were going. The mysteries of the heavens and the mysteries of the earth. They wondered what was happening out in civilization, if they were the only ones left.

They didn't discuss these thoughts. They would spend the rest of the day together, often, having fun in whatever way came to mind. Saturdays were a community work day. Everyone devoted their time to doing something for the community that day, and Monday Minho went back to the school and Thomas to his boat. Sundays were their only true free day.

They were best friends, even more so than when they first came here. They understood each other in a way nobody else could. They shared a common experience. They had both lost their lovers to Wicked.

The names on the graves were hidden beneath the foilage. The left one had the letter "T" visible on the left and "sa" on the right. The one on the right had a barely distinguishable "w" near the middle. There were no actual bodies in these graves, of course. Otherwise the bench would've been crushing them beneath the dirt. Theresa was probably in some government grave somewhere or, god forbid, in individual jars in Wicked's laboratory. Who could even guess with Newt. A mass grave? Scattered all over the place, his body consumed by cannibal cranks? Maybe his clavicle washed down a river, his jaw bone on somebody's table, his femur being chewed on by a stray dog. Maybe he had been burned and was nothing but ash.

It was something neither liked to think about, but both did, frequently.

Thomas' fling with Brenda had failed spectacularly. It was doomed from the beginning. She was too fake, too deceiving. On top of that she was still jealous of Theresa's memory and didn't show her ghost the respect Thomas thought she deserved. As for Minho, Newt's demise had utterly wrecked him. He had no interest in pursuing anybody romantically, male or female. Thomas suspected that Minho wasn't homosexual so much as Newtsexual. He had even had fleeting thoughts that maybe Wicked had messed with Minho's brain at some point to make him so but quickly wiped away the idea, not wanting to sully the boys' relationship with any sort of shadow. Minho made friends but showed no romantic or sexual interest in others as far as Thomas knew. Thomas dated on and off.

Thomas hadn't even known that Minho and Newt had been closer than friends before reaching Paradise. Was glad he hadn't actually. It would've just been harder knowing about it back when Newt was alive. When he realized the truth though he realized how beautiful the idea was, how perfect they must've been together.

Minho only told him after Thomas had explained what he was doing with the big stone he was carrying towards the newly erected church. He helped Thomas haul it there, helped him erect it, and asked Thomas to help him find and carry another one back. He did so without question. He figured it was probably for Newt, the two had been close afterall, but part of him wondered why Newt deserved one but not Alby, or Chuck, or Winston. They spent a few days, side by side, chiseling their messages into the hard but relatively soft stone. The stone was too soft to last more than a lifetime or two, but they didn't need to.

Neither looked at each other's work until they were finished, and then they stepped back and inspected the two of them together. Thomas looked at Newt's stone. The words Forever Loved stretched beneath Newt's name, in smaller letters. They closely replicated the meaning on his own, where he had spelled out Beloved. He could see Minho's eyes in the early evening glow shining wetly with the same feelings he himself was nearly overflowing with.

Loss, sadness, despair, love.

Thomas had also marked out a crude flower on the left top of his stone while Minho had created a realistic sketch of ivy on the right top of his. They could've been created by the same artist.

"Newt was a great guy," Thomas said aloud, even though it didn't need to be.

"I'm sorry about all the things I said about Theresa," Mimho responded quietly.

'I'm sorry about shooting your boyfriend in the head,' Thomas wanted to respond, but he didn't. "Thanks," he murmured instead.

They were quiet for awhile longer. The darkness was creeping in, shadows getting long.

"I wasn't ashamed of what we had," Minho said after awhile, "Don't think I was. It was Newt's idea to be quiet about it. I think he was afraid others wouldn't listen to us if they thought we were different than them. Alby knew, and Chuck walked in on us once. He was pretty young though, I don't think he knew what we were doing. Newt told him he was giving me a massage because I was sore from running. I think Gally figured it out later, because Wicked was always watching us. We didn't really care that they knew.".

"You guys had two years of memories," Thomas responded wistfully. "I'm jealous of the time you two had in the maze. I know that sounds stupid to say."

"Not at all," Minho responded truthfully,

"I don't know how long Theresa and I had been a couple but I have a feeling since we were very young. I only have a few weeks of memories of her though. I sometimes wonder if I made the wrong decision not getting my memories back."

"I don't think you did. If my opinion matters at all."

"It does. Your opinion has always mattered to me, even if I'm usually too pig headed to accept it."

"Hell, like I'm not as bad. Worse, even. Without Newt I probably would've killed myself on accident years ago, always rushing into things. He was the one who made us take weapons into the maze the first time we went out. If we hadn't, I would've been killed by the first buggin' griever I saw the first day we arrived. I could really use him around here. He was a natural. Level headed, decisive, charismatic. He always saw problems before they came and convinced others they were coming to." A brief flash of the note Newt had given Thomas sparked in his mind. "I'm not made to a be a shucking leader. Not for this sort of place. Hunting or something, maybe. Not something with all this long term planning and klunk."

"Maybe you should step down, let some others take over."

"I'm thinking about it. I just am afraid of losing control over my life again, you know?"

"Yeah, I know."

Almost dark out now. Thomas reached for Minho's hand, took it gently in his own, squeezed it comfortingly. He knew Minho wouldn't take it wrong. He wasn't like Minho and Newt. Too bad he wasn't, honestly, being with his best friend could've been the most natural thing in the world. His doomed relationship with Brenda had just come down in a crash and it would've been a comfort to be able to see Minho in that way, to let the larger boy hold him and comfort him. Thomas never took things the easy way though.

"So you two were together...like that?"

"Many times."

"It must've been hard to hide it, with all those boys around. I'm sorry you two could never be open about it."

"Well, he was right. Of course. Newt was always right. That shucking know-it-all. I was the keeper of the buggin' runners. He was second-in-command. Nobody would've taken a single command from us if they thought we were soft."

"I couldn't imagine anybody calling you soft and Newt could take me if he wanted. He nearly pulled my arm out of my socket once. He was strong for such a skinny guy."

"He was stronger than he looked," Minho nodded. "But when we were alone, he was soft. We both were I suppose. He liked having his hair played with, I think that was why he wore it long to be truthful. His belly was ticklish but he liked when I kissed it. I let him top a few times. We wrestled for it. I let him win. I think he knew I let him."

Hearing these things about Newt made their relationship more real to Thomas. Again, he reflected on how beautiful they must've been together. He was 100% straight, figured the idea should've grossed him out, but he felt anything but repulsion. Gentle, kind Newt. Of course he would've been a playful, sweet lover. Overprotective, dominant Minho. He must've treated Newt like a prince when they were alone.

"I don't know if Theresa and I were together that way. I hope we were. I have a feeling we were."

"I'm sure you were. At least once."

"I hope I didn't hurt her."

"I think it always hurts for girls. At least the first time."

"If I did hurt her, I hope she knew I didn't mean to."

"She knew."

"I did it with Brenda."

"I know. I could smell it."

"I didn't hurt her. She's done it before."

"So have you."

"Maybe. What about you two?"

"We were only together but who knows before. Probably not. We were young then. But maybe."

It was dark. It had been dark for awhile now. It was like speaking in a void. Thomas felt exhausted suddenly. He released Minho's hand and started back towards the trail, Minho following a few steps behind him.

"Let's come back here again together," Thomas suggested.

"I'd like that," Minho agreed.

They agreed to meet up that Sunday, and then the Sunday after that, and the Sunday after that, and so on.

They never talked again like they had that night. They didn't have to. Not really. They were close enough not to need words. They'd been through the same things, lost the same thing, felt the same thing. They could communicate through looks and soft, unintrusive touches. People began to gossip about them behind their backs. Not maliciously, but curiously, some giggling.

They ignored the whispers and were just happy to have a best friend in this lonely, depressing, desolate world called Paradise.


End file.
